


Corset of Thorns

by Arelithil



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Introspection, SO MUCH ANGST!, references events from The Last Best Hope, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arelithil/pseuds/Arelithil
Summary: Agnes comes to terms with her fraught relationship with Bruce Maddox.
Relationships: Agnes Jurati/Bruce Maddox, Agnes Jurati/Cristóbal Rios, Emil | La Sirena's Emergency Medical Hologram & Agnes Jurati
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	Corset of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hisselpenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hisselpenny/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [Hisselpenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hisselpenny/pseuds/Hisselpenny). Log in to view. 



> **CW: teacher/student relationship that borders on abusive; intense emotional breakdown; self-doubt and self-loathing**  
> 
> 
> I recently listened to the audiobook for The Last Best Hope (highly recommend!) and I have _a lot_ of feelings about Agnes and Bruce Maddox. On top of the very strong feelings I have about Agnes anyway.  
> This is a pretty big departure from my usual fare, so please heed the warnings and proceed with caution.
> 
> A massive thanks to my beta, Horizon, who, with her trademark brilliance, identified what the title for this piece should be.  
> And also a massive thanks to Regionalpancake and all the other people whose encouragement actually got me to mold this into a digestible form and put it out here for people to see.
> 
>  **EDIT:**.... i just realized in my haste to post this, I forgot to add a summary. WHOOPS. Now _with_ summary and fic rec's at the end.

She had gotten her MD at the almost-record-breaking age of 18 years and 3 months _(curse you, Balamurali Ambati!)_. She had always been interested in psychology, the workings of the human mind, its intricacies, what made it tick… That’s why she had chosen neurology as her field of specialization. She probably would have become an excellent brain surgeon, if… well.

As was the wont of many restless souls for whom the quiet, soft utopia of the main planets of the Federation was stifling rather than liberating, she had joined Starfleet straight out of university, full of bright-eyed ideals and a dream of a future among the stars.

She had never even gotten to leave the planet.

There had been a class on the history of psychology early in her studies. It was a requirement and most of the other med students only took it grudgingly. A chance to jeer at the irrational beliefs and ignorance of people in the past. An opportunity to pat themselves on the backs. “See how far we’ve come?” “We would _never_ act like this!” “How barbaric!”

She, on the other hand, had listened very carefully, and for the first time in a long time, she had felt seen.

It was supposed to be better now. They were supposed to have understood that everybody’s mind works differently, so different people needed to learn and grow and live their lives at different speeds. The outliers were no longer ignored, isolated, or forced to cut out anything that made them special, made them unique. They were _cared for_ and _integrated_ and _had their needs catered to in a highly individual, proper fashion._ Except the ideal of a system where nobody falls through the cracks had always been a comfortable illusion.

Even among her toddler class of pre-K-geniuses, transporting in every morning from all around the continent, there had been little camaraderie. You could only select for so many variables, and so she had ended up with kids who were intellectually as quick and daring and _Gifted_ as her, but who all had their own host of anomalies and quirks that made them not fit together as a group.

Her parents ultimately decided to take the more traditional integrated-support route of having her attend a somewhat regular school that allowed for individualized care and advanced lessons during parts of the week. It had given her social skills and friends. It had meant she went to sleepovers when she was 12, got a nose ring at 15, had her first kiss at 16, and got black-out drunk for the first time at her then-partner’s 18th birthday party. Only by that time she had already been at university for six years. Just a few classes at first, returning to “Regular School” for lessons in history, ethics, literature…

She had really been lucky to have grown up when she did and not in the dark times of yore. To have her differences validated, not spurned, her abilities challenged and praised, but not excessively so, her flaws pointed out gently and helped to overcome. She had gotten to have normal friends, and, in time, normal boyfriends and girlfriends. She had lived as normal of a life as could possibly be expected.

It had still been fucking lonely.

The worst part was that she had no-one to blame but herself. _(Her brain? Her soul? Her mind? Was there a difference?)_ Her parents had been as loving as she could ever wish for. They had given her opportunities, supported her passions, set boundaries when she needed them… They had made her a decent human being. She was happy, she was artistic (she loved drawing, even if she was told frequently not to give up on her brilliant science career to become a painter), she was practically never bored, not the deep, all-encompassing boredom that you could feel grinding in your bones. They had done alright by her.

So had all the teachers, the tutors, the professors, the counsellors… Everybody had done their utmost to make her feel normal and welcome.

But it hadn’t been enough.

She had never felt truly understood.

Until she met him.

She had kissed him first.

For the years that followed _(after he left, because while he was still there, she would never have questioned it)_ that had been the thing she clung to.

She had sought him out, had dragged him to the campus café, had asked him to supervise her thesis… She had touched his hand, that first afternoon, after a mountain of chocolate chip cookies and ecstatic conversation. He had looked so sad, had doubted himself so deeply. She could see parts of herself in him. What she might have become, if she hadn’t had parents that loved and supported her. Teachers that guided and believed in her. The loneliness of a truly extraordinary mind (his, not hers, of course, not when she was facing a true _giant)_. She had wanted to give him some of the reassurance she had been given, wanted to help him see himself like she saw him. The genius, the towering intellect, the man who would create life, where there had previously been nothing. A god, truly.

She had touched his hand. _(“And what did he do?” Emil’s calm voice made her want to punch him. That wasn’t the point! Yes, he had touched her face to wipe away some chocolate she had gotten stuck to her cheek like the ditzy klutz that she was. Yes, he had invited her to his office. Then to his home. But that wasn’t the point! She had touched him first!)_

And she had also kissed him first.

That was the undeniable truth of it. She had kissed him, and he had recoiled and protested, because he was her teacher and he was too old, but she hadn’t cared. She knew he needed her, and she wanted nothing but to stand in his light. To get a glimpse of that genius. To know he was going to create life - and she was helping him. She was his muse! He had told her over and over. She was his muse, his anchor, his support - none of this could happen without you, Aggie, you’re the only one who can help me, the only one who understands!

She had kissed him first.

It’s what she confessed to Cris, ravaged by sobs of grief and guilt over the light she extinguished.

It’s what she screamed at Emil when he tried to take some of the guilt, tried to convince her that even if she started the relationship, it would have been on him, the professor, the _mentor_ , to end it.

But he hadn’t.

He had protested. Once. And then he had let her kiss him again.

And then he had taken her home.

It had taken a long while ( _thank the gods for Cris’s love, for Emil’s patience, for the others’ enduring friendship_ ) to rid herself of the years and years of doubts and guilt. To realize that she hadn’t been manipulated or coerced, she had acted of her own free will.

But he had still taken advantage.

He had let her kiss him again.

Knowing that she was going to give her all to make his light shine brighter, to lift him up so he could reach the full heights of his genius.

Knowing that if she broke with him, he could destroy her - and it wouldn’t even look like revenge, just like an overzealous student overreaching and burning out. Tragic, but not uncommon.

Knowing that she knew, ( _somewhere deep, deep down, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself, not even in those horrible nights when some experiment or simulation had failed and he had screamed at her to get out and that he never wanted to see her stupid, naive face ever again)_ that she was at his mercy.

Knowing that she was fucking twenty-one.

She had kissed him first.

But he hadn’t stopped her.

It had shattered her, the first time she really, truly allowed the thought.

On some level, she had probably known for a while. After he left, she felt guilty for the longest time, but she kept growing and with distance came some perspective. She could laugh about it at dinner parties. Her torrid affair with her unpredictable, brilliant professor. Yes of course the age difference had been pretty icky, but he was a genius, you know? There’s no expiration date on genius! And the others had laughed along and then they had moved on to other subjects.

And at night, back home in her small Okinawa apartment, she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move, as her thoughts raced and she questioned everything that had been her life, but she would always stop herself before her mind could go too far. And when the first rays of sunlight filtered through the paper screens on the window, she would get up and put the whole thing out of her mind.

It had worked well for her. Until now.

It had taken a few hours.

She had still been calm and collected when she had talked about it with Emil, lounging in beach chairs in their private little tailor-made holo-programme, fuchsia flamingos watching them over gently lapping waves. Something had changed in her in the last few weeks, and when their discussion circled back to that kiss for what felt like the hundredth time, and Emil told her again that it hadn’t been her fault, that her mentor had taken advantage of her — for the first time, she found that she agreed.

Only a small part of her at first, only allowing the possibility that he might have acted in bad faith. That he could have - _should have?_ \- known better.

She had been no brainless puppet without any agency or ability to make her own decisions.

But she had been so relieved when for the first time in her life, someone truly _saw_ her. Not the unquestioning approval of her parents who supported whatever she wanted to do and showered her in love and praise even if they had no reference point for the quality of her achievements. Not the mild amusement of college professors, indulging the very bright but still so very young girl sitting in on their classes.

She had been dazzled by the fact that this man, this _genius,_ had deigned to notice her. That he was willing to listen to her crackpot-theories. That he was taking her seriously.

She had been fucking twenty-one.

Emil had looked pleased when she finally said it, out loud, for the first time, that maybe, _maybe,_ this wasn’t all on her. He had also looked apprehensive, though she didn’t understand why until a few hours later — when she found herself, curled up on the floor of Cris’s little bathroom, sobbing so much it almost made her retch, curling in on herself, trying to hold together the parts of her that were shattering, the certainties she had held onto for seventeen years.

Certainties that had kept her upright, kept her going, yes, but that had also constrained her, kept her in line, kept her from growing and expanding. They had burrowed into her, finding their way into her softest places, her most vulnerable thoughts, like a corset of thorns. And now it had come apart and she was undone, torn and bloody, falling to pieces.

And above her the man she loved, taking her in his arms, helpless to do anything but hold her close. He had his own splinters, an assortment of shards held together by the flimsiest of ribbons, propped up by his friends. He didn’t have enough to hold them both together. And neither did she.

Fortunately, they weren’t alone.

Later, when Emil had given her some hot chocolate, a warm blanket, and a gentle cocktail of meds that took the edges off some of the most dangerous splinters, she was lying in Cris’s arms, utterly spent. He was humming lullabies into her hair, kissing the top of her head every now and again, as if to make sure she knew he was still there, that he cared about her, that she was safe. Even though he didn’t know all the details of what had shattered her _(this time. It was hardly a first)_ , he was there for her. He couldn’t put her back together, couldn’t erase the fault-lines where her mind tended to crack, again and again.

But he was going to hold on, to hold the pieces of her while she worked on the jigsaw that had become her life. It would never be whole again, but with enough work and care and support, she could make something new from the shards.

Maybe not better, maybe not worse, but new.

And in its own way beautiful.

She had kissed Cris first, too.

And all the old feelings had come again.

He was older, he was the captain — though not _her_ captain, as they were all very quick to point out — he reminded her a bit of her father, with his paper books and his jazz music.

And she had just killed her last lover. The only person she had spent the night with _(not slept with, but stayed, after)_ in fourteen years. Killing him had seemed like the only possibility at the time, but it had only added to her guilt.

And here she went again, about to seduce a man she shouldn’t.

She had kissed him first.

And then she had drawn back.

And he had stopped.

He was holding her close now, and in her muddled mind, she remembered other nights, being held by a man. Whispers of their glorious future — _of his glorious future with her by his side, cheering him on, propping him up_ — instead of soothing lullabies. The kisses possessive, needy, not gentle and reassuring.

Bruce Maddox had needed her. Had made her believe there was no greater joy, no greater purpose, no greater glory for her than to be his muse, his foil, his support. His crutch.

His Aggie.

Cris didn’t need her. He needed to heal, and finally, after more than a decade, he might get a chance for that. But he knew that he had to do it on his own. He didn’t _need_ her, not like Bruce had. He simply saw it as his privilege to have her by his side, _on_ his side, holding his hand while he took the steps himself.

He loved her for who she was, not who she was to him. For being Agnes P. Jurati.

And that, as small as it was, as insignificant and ordinary as it might have seemed to him, made all the difference.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t known that Agnes has Emil as her amazing counsellor to fall back on, which is why it’s dedicated to Hisselpenny and the seminal [_Applied Ethics for Theoretical Cybernetics_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374228/chapters/56005747). I cannot even begin to tell you how much that fic means to me! (As you can probably tell because a lot of elements, like the fuchsia flamingos, are inherited from there ;9)
> 
>  **Fic Rec's! (aka: if you enjoyed this, why not check out...)**  
>  (There are so, so many, but I'll try not to go overboard XD)
> 
> cicak, [_not a star in the sky that's got our name_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358322) (How Agnes's story continues after _Picard_ ) (and also, because I love it to bits, go read [_nothing to fear from the siren’s call_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484208), which is cicak's take on Cris's story)
> 
> Be_Right_Back, [_Love Comes Softly_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434906) (More Cris than Agnes but a similar mood and so, so good! Also there's [_PODFIC!_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489929))
> 
> Talvenhenki, a ton of stuff but especially [_Dove Niente Potrà Farmi Più del Male_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468461/chapters/56262805) (lots of good angst and H/C) and [_The Voyages of The Freighter La Sirena_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23311603/chapters/55836271#workskin) (Some angst and a lot of fluff).
> 
> Regionalpancake, ["Your Light On Me"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613715/chapters/59849668) (Cris's view of his relationship, from the [_Downtime_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613715/chapters/56667976) drabble collection)
> 
> And, of course:  
> Thimblerig, [_On the Decks of La Sirena_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634554), especially ["Crisis"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086474/chapters/55229179), ["Prayer for Peace"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145922) and ["Big Gran'ma Energy"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469274)  
> (Look, I know. But I simply cannot _not_ cite Thimblerig as a fundamental influence on how I read and write all these characters! It's a bit like how certain history professor's will flunk you automatically if you don't cite Foucault in your paper: It's not like we wouldn't be writing without them, but we definitely wouldn't be writing _This_.)


End file.
